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OLYMPIC BOOK
EXCHANGE, INC.
"We Buy Books"
From beach
to boulevard -
a natural choice
for clothing.
215 N. Hemlock
Cannon Beach 436-1572
Portland 239-4605
2509 First Street
Tillamook. OR 97141
(503) 842-3846
® a s ile
C a rp e t
CANNON BEACH LIBRARY
® k a n tn g
131 North Hemlock
P.O Box 486
Cannon Beach, OR 9 .1 1 0
DONALD THOM
P.O.BOX 773
CANNON BEACH OR 97110
Owned and operated by the Library
436*1114
and V'oman'i Club of Cannon Beach
North Coast Pride Network
F riday N ig h t
P.O . Box 2 7 9 8
F o o tb a ll R ev isited
Full October harvest moon, misty, crisp fall air and the
local homecoming football game is on. I don't like sporting
events, rather play than sit. 1 can't help wishing each time
that there didn't always have to be losers, and kids who don t
get to play because they aren't on "first string .
However, tonight the large young man, who used to be
my baby 17 years ago, is playing in a rock band tor this
auspicious game. It is my first chance to hear his group.
(In music there are no losers.) His 11 year old brother and a
friend are happy to be where the action is. We three head
toward the floodlit field, where the music is already playing.
Walking through the gate, the first irony hits me. As a
High School student I went to the vicinity of the game, but
rarely went in. Groups of us stoner outcasts wandered the
woods behind the field, dimly aware of the hoopla going on
inside the gates. The metaphor for how we saw ourselves,
traversing the edge of accepted society. Oh, 1 tried; made my
bid for cheerleader four different times. Twice I made the
first cut, but failed on the general vote, which translates into
a popularity test. So, opting out of the "scene" was maybe
sour grapes, or maybe just preferring to be in the trees.
For all that, I am here, not as a student, but as a parent.
After 20 years, it all looks the same, and different. The
bleachers are full, a good crowd showed up. The football
players’ uniforms stand out nicely in the Hood lights, shiny
spandex in the respective school colors. Impressive. The
brass band plays, the crowd cheers, there is unmistakable
excitement in the air.
I stand on the side, by the rock band, gratefully beyond
sight of the cheerleaders. I never do venture over that way
for a look. The band is very good, four seniors and their
music teacher. My son and his cool demeanor amaze me.
He is much cooler than I was at 17. Watching him, I feel
vindicated from the past.
Walking through the crowds, 1 twice pass young, very
young girls carrying new babies. One is followed by a
somewhat stunned young man hauling the diaper bag. I
wonder if they are still in school. I worry for them, and
those soon-not-to-be babies. Suddenly I am old enough to
be a grandmother. The comlorting part of this tact remains
that my sons have plenty of interests, options, and honest
information, so, chances are good that that title won t be
forced upon me prematurely.
Halftime, the homecoming court is introduced. Four
girls stride onto the field wearing jeans and school
sweatshirts, warm and appropriate attire. The rhinestone
tiaras are the only telltale throwbacks. The names of the
parents of each girl are announced as well. Credit to the
producers. Also announced is the name of the college each
girl plans to attend. One has plans to study law. These are
the fortunate ones, attractive, self confident and college
bound. I think of the young women I saw earlier with
babies, wondering how this scene affects them.
The rock band plays songs by Billy Joel and Sting, the
lively beat makes me want to dance. Two girls, about 13 or
14. do just that, while no one else around them seems to
notice. They bounce and fling their arms in wonderful
abandonment. The shortest one is the instigator. She
parodies the song. It makes me laugh out loud. I visualize
myself approaching her to say "You're a great dancer! I
don't, might just embarrass her.
Studies of adolescent girls show dramatic changes alter
the ages of 12, 13, 14. They are surrounded by Media
women, impossibly thin, MTV images sadly combining sex
and violence, the mortal fear of peer rejection yet
simultaneous need for approval. Combine this with a body
whose hormonal changes include a natural increase in body
fat. Girls who were cheerful, self-confident children, in great
i ■■ ■«»«■y
Gearhart, OR 97138
By Margi Curtis
numbers become withdrawn, self conscious, low achievers
in their teenage years. My hope for the dancing young
woman is to be one of those who weather the shift. This is
no random thought, it is a burning prayer.
Near the restrooms another young girl sits with her
boyfriend. Her head droops down, as though her neck is
made of rubber. She slurs a response to his question of
concern for her. I wonder if I should do something here.
This girl has a beautiful face, probably even more so when
she is sober. I wonder why she wants to be drunk, what her
life is like. I walk away, stunned and frustrated,
remembering high school keggers, bootlegged beer, peer
influence, desperation.
The crowd roars, another touchdown for the home team.
The final score is 26 to 0. The visiting team was from
Canada, their side of the bleachers was almost completely
empty. I watch them file out of the stadium, wondering
how their long trip home will be.
On our way home we stop for gas at the 24 hour place.
Suddenly I am in the midst of the football players and their
girlfriends. These girls have faces out of "Seventeen"
magazine. They could teach me how to use makeup, so
perfectly are they done. I look away. Suddenly I am again
in a suburban high school, where they really look at the
brand you wear, what part of town you live in. The school
is divided. There are the jocks, the good looking popular
ones, the wealthy, and then there exist the others, quietly
taversing the edges, sometimes inside the fence, sometimes
out.
I gratefully return to my car and my life as a non
adolescent. The game is over for tonight, the last song was
played to an empty field. The moon has risen higher and
shines down on this little town. We all get to go home for
now.
( 5 0 3 ) 7 3 8 -0 2 1 5
/
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25925 N.W. St. Helens Rd., Scappoose, OR 97056
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